


blush

by roboticdisposition



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Size Difference, Unrequited Love, and he likes him when he is small, and will likes him, but he pretends to be big, cos u know, george is small, i go sicko mode im sorry, so george is small, teenie tinie idiot, this is basically 12k of me somehow making size difference deep, toxic masculinity and all that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 05:10:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19738975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roboticdisposition/pseuds/roboticdisposition
Summary: Will thinks that it’s a bit suspicious, the way that George’s cheeks heat up when he leans over him to reach the sugar in the cupboard above the sink, when they’re both standing in the doorway and George’s frame is shrinking next to his own, when it gets late and suddenly George stops buffing out his shoulders and just… is.He thinks it all a bit suspicious, especially when he’s standing in front of him, inches between them at the bar, and George is refusing to sit down. He tilts his head to watch him, as if he’s trying to read something secret, something he’s hiding - a reason why. But he thinks he might already know.Will thinks it’s something to do with his size, the way he towers over him. He thinks that because of the way his cheeks turn crimson and his fingertips curl into fists. He thinks that because of the way George tries to make himself larger, as if he can succeed by simply standing with a straightened back.He thinks that he might like it, how it makes George squirm, and he wonders if George might like it too.He's suspicious, that's all.





	blush

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> hi this is definitely something and i don't know how to explain it
> 
> so basically me and @imnotallexx went off about george being tiny, so this happened
> 
> george is really small but he tries to hide it cos he is embarrassed about Liking being small
> 
> that's it that's the fic
> 
> i promise it's better than just that though fjdsfkjsdlkf there's meta plot regarding size difference and embarrassment and will and george are stupid
> 
> i will shut up cos i have yet again abandoned my obligations for writing this but pls enjoy and let me know what u think
> 
> alternate title for this was teenie tinie
> 
> thank u and goodnight i hope u enjoy xxx

Will thinks that it’s a bit suspicious, the way that George’s cheeks heat up when he leans over him to reach the sugar in the cupboard above the sink, when they’re both standing in the doorway and George’s frame is shrinking next to his own, when it gets late and suddenly George stops buffing out his shoulders and just… is.

He thinks it all a bit suspicious, especially when he’s standing in front of him, inches between them at the bar, and George is refusing to sit down. He tilts his head to watch him, as if he’s trying to read something secret, something he’s hiding - a reason why. But he thinks he might already know.

Will thinks it’s something to do with his size, the way he towers over him. He thinks that because of the way his cheeks turn crimson and his fingertips curl into fists. He thinks that because of the way George tries to make himself larger, as if he can succeed by simply standing with a straightened back.

He thinks that maybe he likes it, when George is looking up at him, nervously looking away, tapping his fingers on the glass to the roaring thrum of the beat, the club just a mixture of close bodies, sounds and sirens in the night. He thinks that he might like it, how it makes George squirm, and he wonders if George might like it too. He’s suspicious, that’s all.

“You want another drink?” Will asks slowly, words clear as he tests it, as he looks down at him and George’s cheeks fade deeper. He thinks he’d get away with it unnoticed if it wasn’t for the strobe lights heavy across his cheeks. “I’ll pay.”

George blinks up at him, weary-eyed, gulping as he looked away. Will bites back a smile, turning to follow his eyes into the crowd. It’s all numb motions and vague definitions, although Will reckons he can see George perfectly; it’s all about perspective.

“Yeah,” George mumbles, coughing lowly. He buries his hands into his sleeves, “Please… I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

Will raises an eyebrow at him, thinking George is just saying that, thinking he doesn’t like beer, thinking he’s going to get him something he likes regardless of what he says. He smiles faintly, although George is already turning away, his neck arching to give the illusion of height. Will thinks it’s tragic, but he can’t deny it isn’t sweet.

He flags down the bartender, a blonde young girl, “Another of these please,” he asks, holding up his bottle, “And a vodka coke, or cocktail of sorts.” Will doesn’t turn around, but he feels George’s eyes on his side regardless.

“Would’ve been alright with beer, y’know,” George says before he turns away again, avoiding Will’s gaze.

Will smiles, waiting for the girl to return with their drinks. He thinks it all amplified, this sensation, George’s reactions, when it’s under spotlights, strobes and colour, when their friends have left them and are long gone, when it’s just them against the bar, bodies pressing together so it’s visible, the difference.

He passes over a tenner and nudges George’s drink towards him, “Yeah, but you’re enjoying this, so…” Will shrugs, leaning his elbow across the bar to try and level himself out slightly, although the extra couple inches don’t do anything, not really.

“Thanks,” George nods, smiling under his eyelashes, before looking away again. Will turns his back to hide the way his face lights up, although he suspects George will have caught it in time. He wonders if he cares, that he’s being obvious, that he’s setting what he wants in the open, but he decides he doesn’t, even if that’s influenced by the liquor burning in his stomach.

He thinks it suspicious, when eventually George complains about his legs being tired, and sits down on the empty bar stool, even more so after having avoided it all night. Will finds it strange, the way he meets his eyes only to flush, and turn away again.

The bravado is still there, only it’s chipped back, it’s lessened, it’s melted. Will can see it now, for real, for what it is. He sees it in the way that George juts his chin out and makes himself bigger, taller. He sees it and he thinks he likes it, that he needs to look down to get a good look of him, that George is forced to look up just to catch his eye.

So he thinks it suspicious, when they leave the bar to dance, when George comes to a stop behind Will, tugging him to face him, and suddenly he’s small, he’s so small. His shoulders are narrow, bone thinned and raw, and his eyes are soft, gentle globes behind his eyelids.

He’s small, like he’s vulnerable. Will thinks he’s so fucking small, but he thinks he likes that. He thinks George might like it too.

\--

It’s later, the after-hours fading while the sun rises. Will’s leading them home after checking Alex and James hadn’t been left behind. They’re sharing earbuds, Will’s got the right, George’s got the left. Their feet match up, except Will’s slowing down to make it so.

He’s drunk, he reckons. He’s drunk, but he’s not drunk enough. Will laughs gently, George’s eyes coming to rest across his cheeks; he wonders if he’ll ever be drunk enough.

It’s not a new feeling - longing, aching pressure through his ribs, above his lungs. It’s not a new feeling, it’s more of an existing sensation, although Will thinks that doesn’t make it any better. He resists tangling his fingers with George’s, although it’s by a narrow foot. He wants to, but he’s drunk, and George is even worse, and they’re more than just Will’s unrequited heartache, regardless of their sobriety.

He doesn’t think he’ll get used to it, although he wonders if he already has, if shockwaves are more accommodating than they were in the beginning. when it had first come to his attention. Except when he looks between their feet, the wire of their headphones between them, and he feels sparks, it’s not that he doesn’t think he’ll get used to it, it’s that he knows he won’t.

“Will?” George mumbles, his voice groaning but gentle in the morning light, “My legs are tired.”

Will stifles a laugh, although he can’t resist the smile. “Not much longer now, alright?”

“Mm,” George hums, his weight staggering into Will’s shoulder as they keep walking. Will feels his warmth like fire in the cold, smores on the bonfire, ashes across the grass. He feels it and he never wants it to leave.

He looks besides to George, his head leaning against Will’s shoulder, bouncing when he walks, when they step down a curb. His head barely even brushes his neck, not when he’s like this, not when his barriers are down, when his chest isn’t puffed out, when it’s late and he’s tired, and pretences are long forgotten.

“How far?” George asks, bumping into Will, causing his half of the headphones to fall out. Will stops, waits for him to catch it at the other end, threading it back into his ear.

“Only another five minutes or so.” Will smiles, and he tries, he really tries, not to think of how small he looks, rubbing his fingers together between his sleeves, his hood tossed across his curls, the cold biting at his cheeks. But he fails, because it’s all he can think about.

“Carry me…” George says quietly, so quiet, Will wonders if he’s imagined it. But he says it again, louder this time, as if he’s found his words, as if he’s accepted his fate. “Carry me.”

Will’s face stutters; he tries to recover, but George continues talking before he can find the words.

“You don’t have to,” He says, “But just… my legs.”

Will rolls his eyes, knowing he’s going to agree before he even nods. It’s stupid, he’s aware of that - he knows George has the ability to walk home, even drunk like this, he always has before. But he supposes he doesn’t care, he supposes he’s drunk, and George looks so small, and he never really minded in the first place.

“You’re so tall,” George whispers into the night, like dreams are living and breathing, heaven on earth. Will thinks he’s losing his mind, but he doesn’t think he cares. “Fucking so tall.”

Will gulps heavily at the back of his throat, he doesn’t know what George means - if he means anything at all. He leans down for George to get on his back regardless. “Best climb on tightly then.”

George grins, something illegal, something that Will thinks shouldn’t be allowed in the atmosphere, but he grins, and no one can stop him. And Will doesn’t want him to, not really. He’s just drunk and his heart is pulsing heavily in his chest.

George curls his fingertips around the muscle in Will’s shoulders, raising his weight and lifting his legs to jump on his back. Will absorbs him easily, forgetting that by being small, he is light as well. He clings onto his legs where George ties them around his hips and tries not to think of the proximity all too close for the night.

“Thanks,” George mutters, his breath casting across Will’s neck. Will tries not to smile, although he realises George wouldn’t be able to see from behind him; he thinks it ridiculous that the only time George can properly reach his neck is when he’s given a boost.

“Your legs would’ve lasted you, y’know,” Will says, but he’s laughing, his breath wispy across the stars. “It’s not that far to go.”

“Yeah,” George agrees, and Will’s about to react before he carries on, “But you can lift me up, I don’t need to waste my energy when I can waste yours.”

“I hate you,” Will mumbles, even though he feels nothing of the sort.

“Yeah, and I hate how tall you are,” George says, like it’s all secrets, things they don’t mean.

Will hums, “I don’t think you hate it.” He almost regrets it by the way George’s breath catches, but he keeps on walking. “Amount you’re blushing when I lean over you and shit.”

“Shut up,” George grumbles, speaking the truth for him. “I don’t think you hate me either, for the record.” He yawns, stupid and loud in Will’s ear, mumbling apologies when his fingertips cling on tighter.

“Yeah,” Will shakes his head, trying to burn the feeling that George meant more than what was cast across the surface. “Guess we’re both liars then.”

“I still don’t like how tall you are,” George admits, “I just… maybe don’t hate it.”

Will feels the air leave his lungs, gasps of breath choking him as he tries to inhale properly. He doesn’t let it show, but it’s a near miss, it’s a narrowed fail - it’s a close call, Will settles with.

“You like it when I can reach the good alcohol on the top shelves in Sainsbury’s-”

“Shut up,” George says again; Will can almost sense the blush rising in his cheeks. “You’re only good for your long arms.”

“Long legs too?” Will laughs, “Or do you want me to be out of proportion.”

“You can do what you want with your legs,” George whispers, his tone sounding opposite to his words. Will sighs, stepping down the pavement and crossing the road. “You’re just… really tall.”

“Yeah,” Will nods, breathless and laughing, “I am, good observation skills, George.”

George breaths out shakily, Will suddenly thinks they’re trapped, instead of living under the night. “It’s not like I’ve just noticed… it’s all I can notice.”

“George-” Will starts, thinking himself too drunk, the night too late, the world too small. He thinks he doesn’t care about George and reciprocation, but sometimes it’s all he can care about - he thinks now as one of those moments. It’s not in self-pity, or self-preservation, it’s in something resembling love and fear.

“You’re so tall,” George says again, like a mantra, like it’s all he can say, and all he can do is twist his fingers into the fabric of Will’s shirt. He says it and pretends nothing was said. Except it’s all Will can think of.

It fills his head like sinking submarines, a war ready to be lost, the turning before a crash. It fills his head and Will thinks he was right to be suspicious, that George is so small, that he makes himself illusioned to be bigger, that he blushes too much to be a coincidence.

Will carries him to the front doors of the tower, lowering him onto the ground, regaining balance on the soles of his feet. He turns and sees George’s arms curling in on himself, shuffling on his toes, and Will wonders where the show has gone, where the bravado has escaped.

“I’m not carrying you up all the stairs,” Will murmurs - something to break the silence, something that stops him thinking of George, the colour to his cheeks, lilt to his eyelashes. “There’s a lift for that.”

George smiles, bright as summer, stars in a clear sky. He smiles as if Will’s said something funny, as if he’s said he’d hang the moon. He smiles as if he’s drunk and he doesn’t care. Will thinks everything’s too delicate, too shallow and too deep, everything too late for the morning light.

“You going in then?” Will speaks again, inhaling slowly before stepping forward and holding the door open. “I’m letting the air in now.”

George scurries in, ducking under Will’s elbow, slow movements under wistful eyes. Will watches him, following with antsy footsteps, waiting for the door to shut before turning to George. He sees crimson across his cheeks, he sees the moon on his features through the main entrance of the tower, but most of all, Will sees the reason why he was suspicious. He sees it and doesn’t know what he’s going to do.

\--

Will stumbles towards his front door, gentle knocks having awoken him, although he reckons he should probably be up already, given that it’s half one in the afternoon. He swings the door open, expecting Alex oddly early to film later on, but it’s not. It’s George. Will sighs and wonders why he expected differently.

“Hi,” George says, looking down at the floor. His chest is raised, his shoulders are back, and he’s standing steady with wide hips. Although Will’s seen through it, he’s seen through it and he knows how small George is, he knows how much he likes being small. He knows that this is just an act to save himself admitting it. “Do you have any milk? I’d like some milk, we’ve run out, me and Alex… I need a cup of tea, after last night.”

“Oh,” Will tries and fails to recover, his mind running through George’s features, his body, trying to figure out if he imagined last night, the club, going home, George’s spilt truths, Will’s suspicions and corrections. “Yeah, of course,” he says eventually, stepping out of the way to let George through.

George smiles, heading straight for the kitchen, flicking the kettle on and fixing himself a mug. He fumbles around with tea bags and eventually pours the water.

“You alright then?” Will asks, “After last night? Bit drunk, you were.”

George leans back against the counter, waiting for his tea to brew. His eyebrows are knitted together as he raises himself on his heels, “Yeah, I’m alright… thanks for carrying me, y’know.” He blushes and turns away, Will feels something sharp running through his chest.

“‘S alright,” Will mumbles, “Just glad you’re not parallactic this morning, face down on the floor or some shit.”

George snorts, turning back to his tea, shuffling around the counter. Will thinks it’s strange, that he won’t look him in the eye; he wonders if it’s all related, if it’s not that he doesn’t want to look him in the eye, it’s that he doesn’t want to look up to look him in the eye.

“Yeah, me too,” George says slowly, stirring his tea, pressing the teabag against the side of the mug with a spoon, draining it before tossing it in the sink.

“Oi-” Will says, pointing towards the sink, “Put that in the bin, you utter twat.”

Will doesn’t expect George to oblige, but he does. He almost recoils in shock when he watches George scurry over to the sink, pick up the teabag only to hurry towards the bin. He doesn’t know what to do with that, he thinks. He doesn’t know how to handle George listening, George curling in on himself to follow his instructions.

“Sorry,” George mutters, interrupting Will from his thoughts. He looks up and catches George’s eye, before he looks away. He’s still puffed out, keeping up the fantasy, except just like last night, just like always, something’s cracked his armour, glimmers of reality sinking through. Will thinks he’s so small, he thinks George is embarrassed.

And suddenly he realises that’s what it is, this levelled embarrassment, deep set in his core. Will breathes in shakily, thinking George is embarrassed that he’s so small, thinking George likes that he is. Will holds his head in his hands, trying to make it out as if he’s just tired instead of vastly filled with fear about what this means.

George is embarrassed; he’s embarrassed that he can be towered over, that he can be picked up, that everything about him is a shell to be cracked. He’s embarrassed. Will sighs and thinks about blushed cheeks, warm features, tell-tale signs that he likes it. George likes the embarrassment, being leaned over, being lifted up. He likes it.

Will thinks he doesn’t know what to do, his hands are jittery and his legs feel half-asleep still. His whole body is running on autopilot, simply acting instead of feeling. It’s all too much after last night, after startling realisations and broken up knocks on the door, too much with George standing in his space, not knowing what Will’s thinking. It’s all too much.

He can’t keep still, so he steps towards the fridge and he picks up the milk. He stands still with the cold air on his face, trying to jolt him into action, but it doesn’t. He’s thinking about George, about embarrassment, about how small he is.

He stretches around the kitchen and goes to pass George the milk. “Thanks,” George says slowly, wrapping his fingers around the carton, the pads of skin touching gently against Will’s own. “You’ve got stupidly big hands,” George mumbles, slow words, just like the night before, slow and stupid like honey filtering through Will’s ears.

He wonders if he’s heard him right, if he’s said what Will thinks he’s said. But he knows he has. It’s the same tone as when he said ‘You’re so tall’, and it hits exactly the same.

Will inhales and feels his fingers burn, letting go of the milk when he’s sure George has a grasp on it. He feels his skin burning to ashes across the floor, everything quiet apart from his head. He wonders if George is doing this on purpose, until he realises he is. He must be.

He likes it, Will reminds himself. He likes the embarrassment, being towered over, being dwarfed by his body. He likes it, Will thinks, and he thinks it painfully obvious, and disastrously stupid that he’s not come to this conclusion weeks before.

It doesn’t mean anything, Will knows that. But that’s not the point. Will thinks George is just trying to tease him, he’s just riling him up, emphasising the point, breaking his own armour down just so Will can see straight through.

Will looks down at George, his fingers unravelling the lid and splashing milk in his tea. He thinks his hands are small, just like the rest of him. He looks and sees George fidgeting across the balls of his feet, stirring the tea desperately, biting his lip.

Will thinks George likes it, blushed cheeks returning heavily, sprawled blotches like fired freckles. He thinks he’s not imagining this, and he thinks if George wants to tease him, he may as well participate.

“Yeah,” Will says slowly, his tone light, thinking he can always brush it off if he’s misjudged, except he doesn’t think he has, “Maybe your hands are just really small though, maybe mine are the normal size.”

George’s shoulders curl in, like a shield that’s only made him look smaller. Will feels his pulse skyrocket, desperate noises in his chest, raised eyebrows and wide eyes.

George looks up at him, “No, you’re just…” He gestures around mindlessly, his other hand still stirring the tea; Will doesn’t mention it’s spilling over the sides. “You’re fucking tall, and you have giant hands, like… double the size of mine giant.”

Will feels this all like a fever dream, he thinks he’s still drunk from last night - or he wishes he is. Everything is still blurry, muddled hazes that leave him reeling. “Maybe not double,” Will shrugs, “Maybe yours are just half.”

George frowns, but he’s squirming under Will’s gaze. Suddenly he stops stirring, his feet twisting to stand in front of Will. And it’s like last night all over again, his guard broken down, his shackles released, and he’s so fucking small.

Will feels something rising in his throat, but he stands his ground, he stands his ground and wants to understand - try to, at least. He holds his palm up in the air, fingers spread and arm heavy. “Go on then.”

“What?” George asks, biting his lip. Will wonders whether to stop him before he rips the skin, but he thinks everything breakable, and doesn’t say anything. “What are you doing?”

“Measuring our hands, come on,” Will says, keeping steady, watching George’s reaction, his chest caving in and his body turning limp. He likes it, Will thinks. It’s all a front, it’s nothing more than a front.

George breaths out, the breath casting like spells in the air between them, and then he holds his palm up, raising it to meet Will’s own. Their fingers line up slowly, Will adjusting their wrists into line. Their hands press together and Will thinks it all stupid.

But he looks at George’s face, the open look of wonder, something deeper behind his pupils, and he wonders if maybe it isn’t stupid after all.

“See,” Will gulps, “Your hand is just tiny.”

George squirms with his body, his eyes attached to their palms like the heavy weight of a camera, “No,” he says again, although this time, his voice is soft, it’s so quiet it could be a whisper, but it rattles around Will’s head like it’s a scream. “Your hand is huge.”

“No, look,” Will says, bending his fingertips over the top of George’s, “I can literally cover your entire hand.” He feels the pulse between his skin race, and Will wonders if he shouldn’t have said anything. Except George is blushing, vibrant pink across his face, and it’s terrifying how much Will likes it, how much he knows George likes it.

“Your hands are so fucking big,” George says again, like it’s final, like that’s all there is to it. But Will can’t stop looking at his reddened cheeks, and he knows it’s more than that.

He pulls his hand away, final glances of his fingers overlapping George’s by the top of his first knuckle. He finds the strength in him to breath, oxygen strangling his lungs, and George turns back to his tea.

He looks at the mess beneath the cup, the ring of spilt tea beneath it, and he fetches some kitchen roll to wipe it up. Will stands steady, watching him with glazed eyes like frozen glass. He feels something breaking, and he wonders if it’s his arteries.

“Your hands are huge,” George says again, although Will doesn’t think it was meant to be heard. He doesn’t respond, thinking George’s narrowed frame and shortened stance says it all. He looks at the blush on his cheeks and thinks himself hopeless.

Will steps back, leaning against the counter, watching as George cradles his mug with both his hands, wrapping around it although not overlapping the other side.

“You’re so small,” Will says again, just to make George crimson, and he is. Will plays it off as a joke, although he knows now that they’re both aware it’s not. He knows it in the shaky exhale pushing through George’s lips, the way his stance lowers, the way he falls in line with Will, his head barely up to his neck.

He knows George likes it, being small, being towered over. Will runs over it like a mantra, and thinks he doesn’t know where it ends.

\--

It’s the evening now, dark winter skies having already settled in by seven, and the night looks cold. Will watches out of the window and sees darkness lit up by street lamps, by reflections inside of his flat. He watches and thinks it cold, even though he’s nestling into the corner of the sofa, a blanket tossed around his shoulders, and the heating whirring in the background.

It’s still cold, but something in Will is fired, it’s burning his lungs out like ashes - he thinks it’s George, the spark that lit the fire. He’s sat at the other end of the sofa, his eyes wide sprawled across the TV. Will sighs; it’s late, but he doesn’t want George to leave.

He thinks himself greedy, wanting so much of George, thinks himself cruel under the guise of friendship, but he doesn’t know what else to do. George is snuggled up in the corner, his barriers broken down after the evening sunset, as if the sun has left and no one can see him anymore. But Will can. He can see him and he never wants to stop.

Despite the comfort, cosy wriggled heat in the corner, George still wears his chest out, his shoulders back, his legs kicked out, instead of curled up like they’re twitching to do. He’s so small, Will thinks again, something of a running theme throughout his brain, short-circuiting wires and veins.

He’s so small, but he tries not to be, he tries so hard. But sometimes he doesn’t, sometimes with Will, he doesn’t. Like the barstool in the club, the lift on his back heading home, their hands pressed together in the kitchen, this moment, right now, with George’s head resting on the back of the sofa, his arms squirming by his chest, ruining the act of something macho, something alpha.

Will sighs again, breath twisting into the room, mumbled thoughts cut by scissors while a movie hums in the background. Will can’t remember the title, all he knows is there’s Sandra Bullock on the screen and George can’t take his eyes off it. He thinks he doesn’t mind it, not knowing what’s going on, not when George is having fun.

He’s hopeless, Will knows that, but looking over at George, finally curling his legs into his chest, he thinks he doesn’t mind. He thinks if this is what hopeless is, he welcomes it.

“George?” Will says softly, his voice gruff toned after so much silence, “You want the blanket?” He’s asking to stop himself thinking, but he’s asking because George is slowly curling up, gently tucking his limbs in, bit by bit as if the illusion is cracking - just like before, just like Will knew would happen.

He’s losing his front, Will thinks, he’s letting his guard down - he wonders if that’s what this is about, not size, not being small, if it’s about keeping up appearances. But when Will looks at George, and his eyes are wide, and he’s rubbing dust away from his eyelids, he doesn’t think that’s it at all, or at least, it’s not the full story.

“Oh,” George whispers, gathering sense like petals, “Yeah, please… It’s cold, isn’t it?”

Will nods, humming under his breath. He starts to shuffle forwards, untucking the blanket from his spine, but before he can move, George is falling across the sofa towards him, bones clicking and skin melting as he settles in by his side. 

Will freezes, thinking George’s body too warm, sweltering and heavy in the lowlight. This isn’t what he meant, what he intended, but he’s too breathless to complain. George’s fingertips steal the blanket out of Will’s hands, taking his half and tucking it around his shoulders, smiling with narrowed curled lips before nestling in against Will’s shoulder.

“Thanks,” George says, breath casting across Will’s neck. He tries not to shiver, but he thinks he fails. “Fucking hell, you’re warm, aren’t you?”

Will laughs halfheartedly, the noise coming out fumbled, “Am I? I was cold a minute ago.”

“Yeah,” George nods, his nose pressing into Will’s shoulder, his exhales warming the fabric through to his skin. His fingers are clenched into fists by his chest, his legs tucked up, hovering in the air between their bodies, as if he wants to rest them down but doesn’t think he can.

Will inhales slowly, George’s body curling tightly into his own. He thinks him so small when he’s curled up like this, when his body is shrunken in half, and it’s late, and the bravado is long forgotten. He’s so small, and he feels George’s cheeks like fire against his arm.

“You’re like a giant body pillow,” George mutters, secrets between bodies, spilt truths like always. Will reckons he should’ve expected it.

He sighs, he closes his eyes, he focuses on the movie, the soundtrack like lost memories in the silence. “Yeah, and you’re just really little,” the words are numb, every syllable a gunshot. Will hears George breathe in, pushing his face further into his shoulder; Will wonders if it’s to hide his blush.

“I’m not,” George says, although he curls his legs up tighter, and he proves himself wrong. “You’re just really big.”

Will feels like he’s choking, words like a noose around his neck, although he holds the reins, he decides the next move. He decides whether he wants to sink or swim.

“You’re not doing yourself any favours,” Will says eventually, sucking in a breath, “Y’know, making yourself all small like that…”

George sighs shakily, Will thinks this all a mistake, but he thinks it undeniable, unregrettable, he thinks it impossible. “I feel like I’m allowed to be small around you.”

And Will stops, and he breathes, and he stares at George’s back, and he thinks it terrifying, moments of vulnerability. He doesn’t speak, he lets George curl into him, tightly coiled like springs about to snap. But he doesn’t, and Will doesn’t, and nothing does snap. The movie carries on playing, and Will carries on breathing, but he doesn’t think it’s the same.

It’s not like the admission is unexpected, it’s not like Will didn’t know, because he did, because a small part of himself always has. But it’s spoken into words, it’s been sounded into existence, it’s words in the air like smoke. It’s real like it’s alive, like it’s breathing, but Will feels like he’s choking.

“Yeah?” Will mumbles eventually, soft words trying to fizzle into dust.

George nuzzles closer, Will can almost feel his pulse against his shoulder, where his chest is pressed to his side, “Yeah,” George nods, his face against Will’s shirt. “Not in like… Not in a weird way, not like… not like that. Just like, I don’t have to pretend I’m some big tough bloke, y’know?”

Will swallows thickly, “Yeah,” he tucks his arm around George’s shoulder and calls it being supportive, “You don’t have to be, you can be small if you want.”

“Yeah,” George sighs, “But I like it with you.”

Will feels like the room is closing in, “What do you mean?”

“Like…” George starts, gathering his breath slowly, “I don’t know, I like that you’re bigger than me, that’s all.”

Will exhales and thinks about suspicion, about the club, the way home, the milk in the kitchen, and he stops. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” George says, as if that’s that, as if all’s been said and done. And Will wonders if it has. He thinks there’s more to it though, the way his cheeks blush pink, red, his features glimmering when Will leans over him, when he nudges him out the way and he goes easily to the side.

But he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t ask. Will closes his eyes and feels George pressing into his shoulder, his weight a steady reminder of everything. He wonders if George means it, what he’s said. Whether it’s just about big and small, size and features, or whether it’s fear and something deeper, something from the heart, in the lungs.

Will doesn’t know, but he sits back, and he thinks it doesn’t matter. “You can put your legs down, y’know,” Will says, looking at George clinging onto his legs, holding them up with his toes digging into the sofa.

George hums, considering, before he lays his legs across Will’s thigh, curled up by his side, legs across his lap. He squirms, and he flushes, and Will can tell by the way his fingers clench into fists, but he likes it. Will knows he likes it, barriers broken, words in the air.

“You’re so tiny,” Will says, purposeful, quiet in the night, reflected against the window panes. George just hums; he doesn’t complain, he doesn’t argue, he just hums, and Will says the words again, “You’re really fucking tiny, y’know?”

“Yeah,” George mumbles, words against Will’s skin, slow and breathy, “But you’re really tall and stupid.”

Will snorts, smiling at the TV, turning to the moon, shining across George’s back, the blanket tossed over their shoulders.

Will thinks of it all like confirmation, like suspicions and truths, like a dream in the haze of the night. He thinks of it and he thinks of George, and he thinks he likes it, like this, with George’s guard broken down, tucked into his chest. He likes it, and he thinks it something like proof that George likes it too.

\--

They’re drunk, heady and tipsy across Alex and George’s flat, bodies merging like everyone's floating, the sound bouncing like reverberations and pulse. Will’s standing steady in the corner, leaning against the wall - he’s not intoxicated entirely, his feet are still his own, but he’s lost in a dream, his body isn’t physically there, it’s all manifestations.

Will thinks after a second thought that maybe he is intoxicated. But regardless, he feels like everyone in the room is secondary - they’re the manifestations. The only thing that feels real, the only thing that Will can see, is George.

He can see bodies, faces, but George is stood by the counter, sitting and swinging his legs, giving himself a boost into the air, a lift where he’s finally tall enough to see heads across the crowd. And that’s all Will can think about.

Confessions and suspicions, George’s words in the night, his blushed cheeks and actions in the dark. Will’s consumed by it, his head lost like dreams, everything chaotic when the clock is ticking later and the music growing louder.

But Will’s looking at George, a carefree smile across his face. He scans him, thinking he’s still putting on the act, knowing he is. It’s all in the way he carries himself, confidence and outward pushes of muscle. If Will didn’t know better, he’d find the whole thing funny. Except he doesn’t, he can’t, because George trusted him with words like truths.

Words that spin around Will’s head at night, when he can’t sleep, when he’s watching TV, when he’s editing. They spin around whether George is there or not. They spin and it leaves Will like hurricanes of havoc, chaos sprawled through his brain.

Because he can’t stop thinking about it, about all of it. Every instance runs through his mind like flashes and memories: leaning over him for the sugar, standing in the doorway, sitting in the club, walking home - carrying him home, watching the movie.

Normal incidents that Will has corrupted, that he’s tampered with, until he can’t see them the same. It’s always watching George, instant replay on his features, on the exact moment he drops the act and just lives, just breathes, just… is.

He looks up at George again, watching him chatting to Alex, some other bloke next to them. Will tries to turn away, drag his eyes off what his head can’t get enough of, but he doesn’t get there in time. George spots him looking, careful eyes watching, turning joyful when he catches Will’s gaze.

His shoulders are raised, jaw smiling as he gestures Will over. Will smiles, and thinks he can’t resist. He squeezes his way past, fitting next to Alex near the counter. They’re all discussing latest video statistics; Will thinks he’s too tired, too drunk, too obsessed for this. So he focuses on George instead. He thinks it’s becoming a problem.

Only George is watching him back, his posture altering while his pupils are lighting fires in Will’s eyes. He’s meeting his gaze, and his demeanour slowly changes, until suddenly he’s slumped, and his fingers are clenched, and his cheeks are flushed, and Will thinks he’s not even done anything.

“You alright?” George speaks up, nudging Will’s side, ignoring Alex’s conversation for their own, “You looked lonely.”

“Me?” Will smiles, finishing off his bottle, “Nah, I’m alright, just… y’know, a bit tired.”

“Me too,” George nods, his face soft as he looks between Will and his swinging feet. “I wanna leave soon.”

Will frowns, “This is your flat, George, mate - don’t tell me you’re going out after this, I can’t carry you home again.”

George giggles, light and airy like broken cuts through the noise. Will looks away, tries to stop the warmth to his cheeks, but he feels himself flush regardless.

“Nah, not going out,” George clarifies, kicking his legs to push his toes into Will’s thigh, “Just don’t wanna stay here all night.”

Will hums, his stomach twisting - a familiar feeling, thick claws through his insides. He thinks he’s going mad, that George can have such a drastic effect on him when he’s - when he’s like this. When he’s small. When his guard is long forgotten.

He focuses on the press of George’s toes against his leg, the soft warmth to his cheeks, the colour he only gets when he gets around Will, the actions that make Will suspicious, forever questioning.

It’s because he knows George doesn’t reciprocate what’s in Will’s head, his chest and his heart. It’s not like he’s ever said anything, but Will knows George, and he knows he doesn’t. Except it’s haunting him lately, it’s questions running through his head, ever since George’s words, ever since the movie.

I like that you’re bigger than me, that’s all.

It’s a chant, something of a repetition, except its screeching, it’s yelling and Will can’t rest. It haunts him. It’s constant, and never-ending, and it makes him question, it makes him suspicious, just like when he wondered about the blush to his cheeks - the same suspicion. The same suspicion proved right with time.

It’s this thick fear that he was right before, that the aching crimson means something, that he is embarrassed, that he likes it when the barriers are gone and he just exists as he stands, a small delicate version of himself, coming out in safety like the paranormal.

Except George isn’t paranormal, he’s just a boy, and he’s just small, but Will thinks he really fucking likes him. He likes him. It’s not new, he doesn’t think it’s ever been new, but it’s growing. It’s doubling and tripling like tumours and Will thinks he can’t contain it.

So he’s scared, he’s scared of what it means. He’s scared whether George means what he said, if he likes it in a sense of safety, in a sense of security, in a sense of purely size comparison, objective and physical. He’s scared that he means more than that.

And Will thinks he’s being irrational, because of course he is. George doesn’t mean more than that. He doesn’t mean anything besides the objective, words just as they are, painful and clear, obvious without meaning. That’s all he means. Except Will’s suspicious, he’s scared and he’s suspicious, that maybe he does mean more.

He’s suspicious in the way that George acts, the way that he bites his lip, runs his fingers through his hair, clenches them into fists and draws himself closer to Will. He’s suspicious that George says words without meaning, that he says words without consequence. He’s suspicious what it all means, what it is.

He’s suspicious, and he’s scared; Will thinks himself stupid, hopeless, but he thinks himself that maybe that’s alright. Because George’s swinging his legs, kicking into Will’s thigh, his body curving towards his own, shoulders caving and back arched. He’s vulnerable, he’s soft and he’s small: he’s let his guard down.

Will feels something devastating running through him like a virus, this chainmail through his organs, sheer drop in his stomach. He feels love and fear, secrets and suspicion. He feels everything all at once, and he finds it a miracle he’s still standing.

He tries to turn his attention back to George, back to the present, back to the moment. He looks to his face, creased eyes like warm sunsets, clouds misty across his cheeks. He looks at him before he looks around, the party only just starting, more people streaming through the door with bottles of WKD and Absolut, and he thinks himself tired.

He thinks about what George said, about wanting to leave, not stay here all night, and wonders if this has been long enough.

“You want to get out of here then?” Will says softly, loud enough for George to hear, quiet enough for Alex to frown at him, questions of what he said spoken with his eyebrows. “Can stay if you want, but if you wanted to leave, I’ll come with.”

George narrows his eyes before he smiles; his eyes casting gentle gazes across the room, he looks about before turning back to Will. He smiles and it’s bright, even though it’s midnight, the clock is ticking and people are cheering. He smiles and Will can’t help but return it.

“Yeah,” George says, sliding off the counter, shrinking by Will’s side, his head bumping into Will’s shoulder. “Let’s go, it’s too loud ‘nd shit.”

Will lets his face melt, a candle lit with a flame, sparks across the wick, down his spine. He nods and considers taking George’s hand, thinking about his palm merging with his own - just like the kitchen, measuring their hands together. He considers it, his eyes burning against George’s twitching fingers.

But he doesn’t do anything. He stands steady and listens to George announcing their leave. Alex whines, complaining that it’s not even gotten good yet, that there’s still time, that everything can be drinks and music. But George shakes his head, looking up at Will with a smile.

Alex looks at him funny, but Will tries to ignore him; he’s all bark and no bite. He turns back to George and tilts his head in question, and before Will can consider it again, George is the one who takes his hand, intertwining their fingers like lace and ribbon before nudging into his back for him to walk away.

And Will does, he drags his way through the people, stumbling his legs into the coffee table as he leads them towards the exit. He stumbles and thinks his hand like fireworks lit with George’s spark.

He squeezes his hand gently, guiding them out of the door, through the vacant hallways towards the stairs. Will doesn’t think he can stand in the lift, silence as loud as sirens glaring in the metal. So he heads for the stairs, and George giggles behind him, his hand tight in his own as they stumble down flights like they’re floating.

And then they’re in the entrance. They’re standing in the entrance with wide glass windows and doors, the whole world looking out, looking in. It’s all careful eyes flickering in the darkness, and Will thinks they’re looking at him, at his hand in George’s.

He wonders if George is just drunk, if he’s just carefree and mindless, if he just wanted to hold his hand, so he did. He wonders if that’s all it is. But Will sighs, and he thinks it’s not, because it’s George, and it’s never quite that simple.

“Where are we going?” George asks, wide eyes trusting like he doesn’t mind where they go as long as it’s not paired with booming speakers and loud voices. Will feels something shake in his chest, something loose when he thinks that George is trusting him with this, when he’s lost his energy, when his guards are down.

He thinks about when George is small, his own hand overlapping his between them, his body curling into himself like he’s trying to hide. Except Will knows he’s not, Will knows this is more of the truth than he thinks he’s ever seen; he’s not hiding, he’s letting himself be.

George is looking out through the windows, tinted glass obscuring their view; lorries drive past, late night passengers and drunks stumbling through. He looks small, standing against the wall, pale ivory behind his back. He looks small, and Will holds his hand, and he thinks this moment endless.

But it’s not, not really. It’s a moment in time, just like any other, except they’re drunk, and everything feels bigger than themselves, or maybe that’s just Will, maybe he’s just projecting. But they stand there and watch, the world passing them by, with their fingers intertwined and bodies close.

George breaks it first, shuffling on the balls of his feet as he fumbles closer. His head knocks against Will’s shoulder, his fingers twisting and rubbing against Will’s. He’s soft, Will thinks. He always thinks so. But it’s emphasised, under the moon, the spotlights in the tower, going out this time instead of going in.

“Come on then,” Will mumbles eventually, tugging George towards the door, a light laugh through the air like the tones are dancing. Will smiles, holding the door open, guiding George through it.

They walk without purpose, footsteps kicking stones, pebbles beneath their soles. They walk with their hands swinging, and their bodies slow. George’s chest shrinks, and his shoulders slump, and he’s small, and he’s himself, and Will can hardly breathe.

He walks slow, just like last time, coming home from the club, he walks slow so that their feet align themselves, padding down the pavement under car lights in symphony, in melody.

Will thinks about words, about meaning, but mostly he thinks of George. He thinks about his palm grasped in his own, his body next to his, and about what they are.

He wonders why George is doing this: holding his hand, keeping him company, bumping into him, admitting soft and gentle words. He wonders if he means it, when he says he likes it, when he says he doesn’t have to pretend. But it’s always the same thoughts, it’s always Will thinking the blush in his cheeks says it all for him.

Maybe that’s all he needs to know, that George likes it, in some sense of the word. That it’s more than just this. Except Will feels pangs through his chest, something like longing, like desire, like something he wants to define.

But he doesn’t, because he can’t, because he doesn’t want to ask. It’s George. Intertwined hands under streetlights, leaving parties early, piggyback rides after long nights, bar stools and suspicions. It’s George, Will thinks, and he doesn’t know what to do with him.

He stops walking when they reach the park, roughened leaves in the darkness, cigarettes across the tarmac, plastic bags caught in branches. George smiles, poking his fingers against broken petals, never leaving Will’s side.

Will thinks he doesn’t know how they got here, but he thinks he’s glad to stop, he’s glad for the oxygen, to breathe, to simply exist, for a moment. He drags them over to a bench, sitting down with stretched legs; George leans by his side, crossing his legs beneath himself, tucked up with rosy cheeks.

Will looks at him like it’s the first time and remembers why he likes him, why there’s an ache in his chest that feels painfully familiar, why there’s a four letter word dusting around the silence, why he’s sat in a park on a Saturday night having left a party early, just so they can breathe.

“You look tiny like that,” Will says; it’s something to say, but it’s testing, it’s teasing, and they both know it. Will holds his breath and wonders if this is wrong, if he’s pushing it and he shouldn’t, but he looks at George and he’s blushing, his spare hand rubbing at his knee as he squirms. He looks at him and he thinks it can’t be wrong; he just wants to do right, but he doesn’t know where to find it anymore.

George smiles and looks away, bushes and flowers looking wilted in the distant. Will sees it all in his peripheral, his focus cast upon George, his cheeks, forever his cheeks. The pinkened colour that never gets old.

“Yeah,” George says in the end, admissions and confessions, truth and fear. “I like it, without the act… I like it when you say I’m small, and it’s obvious, y’know?”

Will feels his heart in his throat, choking him with thickened blood and a radiating pulse rate, “What do you mean?”

George sighs, fidgeting against Will’s side. Their hands are still entangled, but he kicks out his legs and folds them up again, compacting his body against Will’s side. He rests his head against Will’s shoulder, his legs coming to rest across Will’s thighs; and it’s familiar, it’s this heart-aching familiarity from the movie.

Will looks at him, curled up in a ball resting against his bones, his shoulder and his hip pushing against George’s skin, but he doesn’t mind, neither of them mind. George hums, nudging in closer. Will thinks he fits there, against his shoulder, next to his side, cutouts carved into their flesh where they fit, connections in invisible ink.

“Like…” George starts, his spare hand gesturing when he can’t find the words, “I don’t know - when you call me small, hold our hands together, carry me home… it just-”

Will sucks in a breath, George pauses, stopping to nestle his chin against Will’s collar bone, “It just feels like you’re taking care of me, that’s all.”

Will feels the moment still, the leaves freezing like its winter, the birds quiet into hibernation. Everything just stops, and Will tries to breathe. “I’ll always take care of you,” he says slowly, the words strangled in his throat: love and fear. “You know that.”

“Yeah,” George nods - a truth for a truth, like it’s a game, pass the parcel. Except it’s no one’s birthday, and they’re not kids, and everything feels heavier in their palms. “I - I like that… I’m just embarrassed.

“Why?” Will asks, feeling heat against his chest radiate from George’s skin, their bodies warming each other as the wind catches up to them, “What’s wrong with that?”

“I don’t like that I like it so much - I should be this… this big-”

“But you’re not,” Will interrupts him, speaking softly, near on whispers, “You’re not and you don’t have to be.”

“I know,” George nods, rubbing his face into Will’s shirt. “I just like… I like it when you can tell I like it, when you take care of me.”

“Yeah?”

George hums in agreement and Will feels the air leave his lungs. He closes his eyes, blinks heavily, eyelashes against his cheeks like raindrops. It feels too heavy for the early hours, but it feels real, it feels like something coming alive. Will thinks he doesn’t mind that, that maybe that’s a fair trade-off.

“I like it,” Will finally says, the words twisting in the air, melting with the wind like smoke, heading up towards the stars, “I like taking care of you, I like when you’re small, when you don’t have to pretend.” He takes a breath, “I like it,” he says, like it’s nothing, like it’s not months of growing tumours in his heart, like it’s just words.

Except George hears them and Will can see his blush in the clench of his fingers, the twitching of his legs, the way he nuzzles closer, fingers grabbing onto the hem of his shirt. George hears him and he doesn’t move, and Will exhales slowly.

“Yeah,” George mumbles, “I like it too,” he says, squeezing his fingertips against Will’s knuckles. “Makes me feel warm, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Will nods, swallowing heavily. He knows they’re drunk, liquor-induced dreams, but he doesn’t think he cares. He’s suspicious, whether words are injected with syringes of something deeper, but in the end, he stops. Will stops, and he thinks about George, about admissions, truths in the darkness, quiet like whispers.

He stops and he thinks that maybe this one time, he can rely on George’s words, not suspicions, not undercover meaning. He can take it for what it is, words blown up into bubbles through the park, drifting and floating like fireflies, lighting up the night. He takes it for what it is, and he smiles.

“Me too,” Will says clearly, his other hand coming to grab hold of George’s spare one in his lap, clinging onto his fingertips like it’s an effort to stay steady, but George doesn’t mind. Will hears him laugh, and squeeze back harder, wrapping his fingers around his own, tracing knuckles and palm lines as words are left to settle.

“You’ve got giant fucking hands,” George murmurs after a while, “Look at how big they are compared to mine.” He holds their hands up, wrists aligned and palms pressed together, just like the kitchen, the milk, the tea. Will smiles.

“Yeah, and you’ve got tiny ones-”

“Yeah,” George interrupts him, sighing against Will’s chest, “But I like it.”

Will grasps hold of his hand properly, linked fingers like twisted promises between skin and bones. He lets himself breathe, sitting back under the moon, time lost to them under the stars. But he doesn’t mind, he thinks. He likes it, the peace, just existing with George, with truths like gold in their throats.

Except it’s late, Will knows it is, even without the clocks ticking like weighted reminders. It’s late and it’s getting cold, and they didn’t bring jackets with them. Will likes it, under the daze of the trees, clouds like greys and blues in the sky. He likes it, but George is the only thing keeping him warm.

He pulls away slowly, holding one of George’s hands tight like it’s iron locked, he straightens him out while he grumbles into the silence, creases pressed into his cheeks. Will smiles and thinks he’s hopeless, but he thinks it’s late, and it’s cold. He thinks the moment endless, but he wonders if this is actually the end.

He stands up slowly, pulling himself tall while he holds George’s hand and waits for him to stand. George does begrudgingly, stumbling to his feet, head knocking into Will’s shoulder, pressing into his chest, his spare hand tucked around Will’s waist.

Will feels his breath thick in his throat, stuck like it’s honey and treacle, poison of the sweetest kind. He rests his own hand around George’s neck, steadying more than anything else, and he feels warmth through George’s cheeks heating up his shirt, and he smiles, he smiles because it’s George, and he’s tucked in so small, his fingers in his shirt and his head against his chest.

“Come on,” Will says, pulling away, looking at George and seeing crimson, “Let’s go home.”

George smiles, and starts to lead the way; he doesn’t speak, but he pulls Will through the shrubs, beneath the curving branches, under the leaves, and they go back the way they came.

They retrace their steps like they’re lost and they’re figuring out how to be found. They stumble through pavements, cobbles and tarmac, smoke in the air and car lights in the street. George stops occasionally to bump his head into Will’s shoulder; Will just smiles, standing still until George pulls away again, and they carry on walking home.

It all feels effervescent, irridescent, like the world is letting them be, standing still to give them a chance to live. Will feels it through his veins like rushes of electricity, his arteries bleeding with the sparks. It’s heavenly, he thinks, walking home with intertwined fingers and George by his side.

They stumble towards the front of the tower as if nothing’s changed and it’s just a normal night out. Will’s about to worry, but George looks at him and smiles, and he thinks it’s vitally clear at least a little bit of everything is different, and he thinks he likes that. He thinks there’s no need to worry.

He holds the door open for George, but they squeeze through together not to break the link in their palms. George giggles, light noises echoing around the pale walls. Will smiles and starts to head towards the stairs, but he stops, looking between their hands, and heads for the lift instead.

George falls behind him with his curls falling over his forehead, his head tucked in against Will as they stand still, encaged by the metal. The doors shut, the lift starts rising, and George sighs, squeezing Will’s hand as his spare one links back around his waist.

“Did you want to go back to the party?” Will asks, realising he’s only pressed the button for his own flat, rather than George and Alex’s. “Maybe it’s heated up a bit now.”

George pulls away to make a face, turning back to nestle his face into Will’s collar again before speaking, “Not unless you want to.”

Will grins, turning back to the metal doors, gently rising like smoke in the air, like everything is impossible and invisible, just a mirage of beings and moments tossed in boxes like photos. He thinks he’s tipsy, maybe not drunk - not now, at least, but everything’s fuzzy. Will can’t tell if that’s the alcohol or George.

“You alright going back to mine then?” Will asks, “You can take my bed if you want to stay over. I can go on the sofa.”

George smiles, his teeth grazing Will’s neck. The lift doors open and they spill across the floorboards into the hallway. George hums, nodding as Will tugs them through the walls to his front door.

“George,” Will says softly, nudging against his shoulder, “Can I get my keys, they’re in my pocket, you’re gonna have to move slightly.”

George protests, grumbling as he leans away. But before Will can reach and grab them, George’s fingers are digging into his pocket, tugging out his keys and danging them across Will’s palm. He smiles lazily and tucks himself back into Will’s side, his head nudging his shoulder.

Will looks down at his spare hand, now gripping onto his keyring. He wonders if he’s dreaming, but he feels George like a heavy reminder across his shoulder, and he goes to unlock the door.

They stumble through the flat with the knowledge that Gee is out still, and Will heads towards the kitchen to get them both a drink. George follows along behind him, their intertwined palms sticking them together like glue. But he lets go when Will starts to run the tap, and he hoists himself up onto the counter.

He sits as he did in his own flat, his legs kicking out across the kitchen, narrowly avoiding Will’s legs. Will smiles watching him, filling up a glass for George, passing it to him with brushed fingers and gentle touches. “That alright?” he asks, raising his eyebrows as George drains it before nodding.

“Yeah,” George looks down at his lap, “Thanks.” He looks at his fingers, between his nails, curled into fists in his lap. Will watches him, sipping his own water, leaning against the counter.

“‘S alright,” Wil shrugs, thinking this just a moment, just time, thinking nothing has to be different. It’s just George; he smiles, looking between the pink scribbled across his cheeks and the way he’s looking down like he’s turned shy.

Will feels flames in his chest, roaring in the silence, and he thinks he should do something, anything. He reckons he should make up the bed, find a blanket for the sofa, figure out what they’re doing, what he’s feeling. But he doesn’t, he stands and watches like the world is before him, water and earth, fire and air. He watches George and doesn’t want to miss a thing.

“I like this, with you,” George says suddenly, his voice stark against the darkness, low-lit lamps flickering. He doesn’t look up, but Will can see the softness to his face regardless. “I’m not just saying it ‘cos I’m drunk,” he clarifies, meeting Will’s eyes with fire and fury, interrupting Will’s upcoming protest.

Will shuts his mouth, feels his body slump against the counter. He feels a head-rush, spinning motions like dizzying tea-cups at the theme park. He wonders if he’s doing this wrong, if everything should be better, except he realises this is George, and he thinks with him, it’ll always be right.

“Yeah,” Will hums, blinking slowly, processing like polaroids, savouring the moment like photographs ready to be stored in albums, “I like it too.”

George smiles, his cheeks warming under the moon. Will can’t take his eyes off him, he sees the moment too small, too infinite. He sees the moment like he sees George and thinks it’s perfect.

George pulls himself off the counter, his glass shaking behind him where he jolts it. He comes to stand in front of Will, looking head-on, looking at Will’s collar bones. Will looks down at him, his hair wind-swept after their walk. He thinks about resisting the urge to run his fingers through the strands.

But he can’t, so he tangles his fingertips with the ends of his hair, tricking down to his scalp. George exhales shakily, stepping closer. Their feet brush together and Will stops breathing. It’s not just proximity, closeness, it’s meaning. It’s the meaning Will’s deciding to trust, the truths in his words. It’s meaning and it’s George.

Will sucks in a ragged breath, dragging oxygen into his lungs while he slowly tilts George’s head back, gentle motions causing him to look up. And George meets Will’s eyes. And it’s burning, like everything’s on fire, smoke and ashes up in flames. And Will smiles, he smiles because it’s late, and he’s not warmed up yet, and George is standing there, pupils filling Will’s gaze, his tiny frame encased by Will’s arms in his hair.

George is standing there, and Will thinks he’s about to wake up, but he never does. He brushes thumbs across George’s forehead, tracing through his hair, watching his cheeks catch fire, blazes of reds streaming in Will’s eyes. He trails his fingers down, heat against his skin underneath the pads of his thumbs.

“You’re really small,” Will says, waiting for the response. George inhales slowly, and Will smiles.

“Yeah,” George says, heat rising under Will’s fingertips. “I am.” He squirms, slotting himself between Will’s chest and his arms locked around his cheeks. He looks up properly, Will’s fingers following like they’re connected. He holds his jaw steady, and George licks his lips.

Will feels his head like wildfire, thoughts and meaning jumbled, but he thinks it doesn’t matter, he wonders if it’s ever mattered. He thinks himself too high to care, feeling the soft curve of George’s jaw under his fingers, angling him upwards, and suddenly he thinks in a moment of clarity, and he smiles, little breaths of laughter easing out through his lips.

“What?” George asks, eyes wide, trusting and questioning. Will can’t wipe the softness from his face.

“You can’t reach me to kiss me,” Will mumbles, thumbs stroking George’s skin. George blushes furiously, and Will can’t stop smiling.

“Shut up,” George says, shuffling on his feet, edging impossibly closer, his hands gripping onto Will’s shirt, the hem twisted between his hands. “I can.”

Will looks at him in question, narrowing his eyes, “You can’t.” He says, almost teasing.

“Yeah,” George says, “I can - watch.” And he leans up on his tip-toes, meeting Will’s lips with his own.

Will can’t help but smile into George’s mouth, kissing him gently like time is abstract and it can last forever. He smiles and their teeth collide where George is smiling too, and he licks into his mouth slowly, leaning down to twist their tongues together, meeting their lips like fireworks.

“See,” George whispered, stumbling closer, meeting Will’s lips between words, “I can reach.”

Will shakes his head, smiling endlessly, “Only on your tip-toes.”

George sighs, breaths of air across Will’s lips, “That counts.”

Will closes his eyes and kisses him again, holding his jaw steady as their mouths melt under the blaze of flames. He wraps his spare hand around George’s waist, pulling him against him so his feet stumble on his toes, their chests bumping and shoulders edging closer. George sighs and kisses back harder, Will smiles and bites his lip between his teeth.

It could be seconds, minutes - forever, that they stand there, but they don’t care. Will holds George up, his frame dwarfed by his own as they kiss, languid motions of their lips. Will thinks of it like wishes and dreams, like something he’s going to think about forever, because he might be drunk, but it feels like something.

He thinks it’s always felt like something, really. He just never realised it was going to be something, not until now. So he kisses him, and he kisses him, and it feels like something, and he feels like he wants it to last infinitely.

“You’re fucking tall, can’t fucking reach you-” George grumbles, words seeping between their mouths.

Will huffs a laugh, “I told you that,” he says, slowly tracing fingers down his neck, sloping to hold both hands at his waist. “You’re too tiny to reach.”

“Shut up,” George mumbles, leaning his head into Will’s chest, his lips brushing against his collarbone before shrinking down into his shoulder. His arms loop around his waist, their bodies touching together with shared warmth, heating the room from inside out.

Will smiles, hands around George’s body, feeling electric through to his bones, something like fantasies coming alive - although Will thinks it more than just a fantasy, it’s feelings and meaning, confessions and spilt truths, love and fear - suspicions that kick-started it all. It’s everything all at once, and Will sucks in a breath and breathes.

“Did you wanna go to bed?”

George hums, pulling away slightly, enough to twist his body to rest his forehead against Will’s chest. “Yeah, alright.”

Will sighs, shaky breaths that fear the time the night is over. Heavy thoughts pull him from the present, worries that in the morning it’ll be different, just drunk buzzes in the dark. But it always spins on its head, he always remembers George’s words, the blush on his cheeks, the kiss like promises between lips, and he thinks it alright - he thinks it nice.

“Come on then,” Will says, holding his fingers around George’s shoulders, trying to pry him off, but he doesn’t move. Will snorts, “You’re gonna have to move, y’know.”

“No,” George mumbles, breath seeping through his shirt, “You can carry me.”

Will shakes his head, closes his eyes momentarily, and breathes, thinking this as reality, a newfound hope spiralled from suspicion, requirement breeding into something like blossom. “You can walk yourself-”

“Yeah,” George interrupts, “But you can carry me too.”

Will sighs, although he feels radiant through his bones, something like stardust scattered through his organs, his bloodstream, between their bodies, on the counter, along the flat. It’s everywhere, and Will thinks he likes that. So he sighs, and he moves his hands away, moving down to curl around George’s legs. Because he reckons George placed the stardust there in the first place.

“This alright?” Will asks, his palms across George’s thighs. He nods slowly against Will’s chest, and he lifts him up carefully. Will curls his hands around his legs, pulling their bodies close while George wraps himself around Will’s waist, tying his legs around him like knots.

He smiles into Will’s shoulder, given a boost into the air, and he wraps his arms around Will’s neck, sewing their skin together as it touches. It’s parallel, so dimilar but so far away from the first time, when Will carried him home from the club, when it was all just suspicions instead of confirmation.

Will stands there for a moment, holding George up, feeling his body against his own, curled into his chest with his legs around his waist. He holds up him and he holds him close, and he thinks about moments hidden and moments come alive.

He smiles, holding George up like he’s a feather, he tells him as much and starts heading for his room, pushing the door open with his toes and slowly edging towards the bed. George grumbles, expressing that Will should shut up. But Will just smiles, tapping at George’s thighs to unravel them so he can drop down onto the sheets.

George obliges, unwrapping his arms and dangling them by his sides as he sits on the edge of the bed. He looks up to where Will’s standing in front of him, tilting his neck back to reach his eyes, “Thanks,” he mumbles, blush across his cheeks. “I like when you carry me.”

“Yeah,” Will smiles, “I know.” And he does, he does and he thinks nothing better.

“Are you gonna stay with me?” George asks, softness to his face, blush along his cheeks - warmth Will has come to adore, warmth he thinks he’s always adored, warmth he thinks he could live in, at least for a while longer.

Will feels his heart shiver despite the heat, burns patched up with kisses and fingertips, “If you want me to.”

“Yeah,” George nods, “Please.”

Will smiles but he doesn’t move, he stands and watches George, shuffling against his sheets as he stares up at him, round pupils like the moon lighting up the room.

George stands up suddenly, their bones knocking together, knees and elbows jolting. He stands up and leans into Will, looking up at him with an unbreakable gaze, something trapped with power, meaning, something soft.

“You’re so small,” Will says again, as if he can’t think of anything else. But he doesn’t mind it, not when George blushes, not when he squirms in his arms, not when he looks up at him and leans closer.

“Shut up,” George grumbles, although it’s written between the stars that he doesn’t mean it, he never has. But he leans up on his tip-toes and meets their lips together again, the haze of alcohol under their tongues like a gentle reminder of the night, the moment, the memory that will be.

“You like it,” Will says between his lips, secrets and confessions, truth hidden within bodies, in their gums. “You like this.”

“Yeah,” George admits, “But you do too.”

Will smiles, and this time he feels a faint scatter of pink across his own cheeks, “Yeah, I do,” he says, and he leans down to kiss him again, like it’s something of an antidote, a potion like magic between their mouths.

Will kisses him, and he smiles, and he kisses him harder. George melts under his fingertips and shrinks his frame into Will’s, and he’s small, Will thinks, he’s so fucking small.

He thinks he was right to be suspicious, when he thinks of the blush, the clench of his fingers, the words in the dark like secrets. He thinks of George and he thinks of how it all started, feelings buried in the sand, unearthed with pinks and reds across his skin. He thinks of George and he thinks of suspicion, and he thinks about how it’s all laid out in words, meaning and truths.

He thinks of George, how he likes it, how he knows Will likes it too. And he does, he likes it so much. He kisses him with words across his tongue, and thinks he likes it a lot. He likes George a lot. And with whispers in the dark, he thinks he’s glad George does too, with blush painted across his cheeks, he kisses him and hugs his frame into him like he’s made of glass. And he thinks that perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> hello i hope u enjoyed and this turned out okay i accidentally went Off but when do i not
> 
> pls kudos and comment and all that i really appreciate it
> 
> hit me up on tumblr if u want, my @ is roboticdisposition
> 
> thank u for reading, appreciate u all a Lot xxx


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